


The Adventure Of The Dutch Princess (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [74]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Deception, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Royalty, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 23:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10887303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Royalty is, rightly, afforded certain privileges denied to lesser peoples – but surely those cannot extend all the way to murder? In the flat lands of the Low Countries, Sherlock has another diplomatic knot to untangle.





	The Adventure Of The Dutch Princess (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lyster99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyster99/gifts).



It seemed hard to believe that it was barely a week ago that I was being threatened with complete ruination at the hands of that vile Jezebel Mrs. Aston-Waye, and now Sherlock and I were standing on a cold railway platform in northern Germany (I bit back the thought that I had essentially fled the country, as it was a little too close to the truth). Yet I had the man I valued above anyone else (possibly even Sammy), and I was perilously close to being happy.

Something was bound to go wrong soon. I just knew it.

+~+~+

Wilhelmshaven Station was generally unimpressive, being at the end of a single branch line and looking generally un-cared for. It was also extremely exposed, a biting wind blowing in from the German Ocean. I shivered, despite the wonderfully thick woollen coat that Sherlock that had bought for me last Christmas. At least the crossing from Heligoland had been a relatively calm one.

“I wish that your brother could find a crime somewhere warmer”, I grumbled.

He just smiled at me, the wind making his hair even worse than usual. I sighed, and did not even try to fight the urge to move closer to the inhumanely warm heater beside me. 

Having changed at Oldenburg, our second train, an irritatingly slow one, took us across the border to Groningen, and the Dutch border guards eyed us suspiciously before returning our passports. It was late when we reached the northern Dutch town, and I was grateful that Sherlock had checked us into the station hotel, so I did not have far to totter before collapsing face-down onto a surprisingly comfortable bed. I heard a chuckle from behind me, then the door shut and he left for his own room. I was asleep before his footsteps faded away. 

+~+~+

The next day, we returned to the station and took a much faster train south to Amsterdam, the journey being just over five hours long. The countryside was almost eerily flat, I noticed, reminding me a little of our time on the Isle of Uffa and the case of the Hereward Dagger. I wondered how the two young men, whose love for each other had sparked that strange little case, were faring now.

There was a dining-car on the train, and the food was actually not that bad; I had experienced railway fare on but a few occasions, and had come to the conclusion that it was best appreciated on even fewer occasions! Sherlock explained that our contact in the Dutch capital wished to meet us as soon as possible, so having lunch just before we arrived would save us some time. 

I was surprised when, upon reaching our hotel in Amsterdam, we were met by someone whom Sherlock explained was basically his brother Bacchus' counterpart for the Dutch government. Surprised that is because the man was that unpleasant lounge-lizard's polar opposite; short of stature, unprepossessing and generally unkempt. His name was Martin van Tromp, and frankly he could not have looked less like the famous Dutch admiral whose name he bore if he had tried.

“Appearances can be not only deceiving, but quite helpful in the espionage fraternity, doctor”, he smiled, clearly spotting my ill-concealed reaction.

I blushed at being caught out like that. Sherlock, the bastard, smiled at my evident discomfiture.

“Let us adjourn to the privacy of my room here”, our host said, “and I can explain why my country needs your help, gentlemen.”

All right, his inclusion of me in the invitation did make me feel just a bit better. And that was something that a certain lounge-lizard would never have done.

+~+~+

“You may be aware”, our host began, “that a few months ago our king, William the Third, was declared mentally incapable. A regency council is now ruling for his sole surviving child, his young daughter Wilhelmina.”

“He is the Third because the Dutch reset their monarchical numbers when they became a monarchy, after the Napoleonic Wars”, Sherlock explained, proving himself as psychic as ever. I had indeed been wondering why the Dutch had had a second third William – look, I knew what I meant! - after the one whom they had grudgingly shared with us some two centuries back, an act which had definitely been to our long-term benefit rather than theirs.

“I have to say that this has not been a happy reign”, our host sighed. “The king has mishandled Luxembourg of which he is Grand Duke, upset the Belgians, crossed parliament, and offended you British despite your support against the rising threat of Prussian Germany. His second marriage, to a woman over four decades his junior, also scandalized many, although at least that has turned out better than we had feared, and was certainly a lot less turbulent than his first. And the number of bastards he has fathered over the years – well, even only counting those he has owned up to, it is well into the thirties.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. Even my country’s most prolific monarch in that department, Henry the First, had only made it into the twenties.

“It is one of those that is the problem, I suppose?” Sherlock asked, sipping at a coffee that he had purloined from somewhere. I stared in annoyance; I was sure that we had asked for three teas. And even though his face remained impassive, I somehow knew that he was smirking inside. Maybe I was psychic, too.

He shook his head slightly. Damnation!

“Yes”, Mr. van Tromp said with a sigh. “One Mary King – she has changed her name; her mother's name is Barton. She was in court on another matter the other week, and she made the claim privately through her lawyer. Most regrettably, subsequent inquiries make it appear that she may have been telling the truth.”

“What crime did she stand accused of?” I asked.

“Murder!”

I coughed into my tea, spluttering it everywhere with my usual inelegance. Sherlock, of course, remained unperturbed, merely passing his messy friend a napkin.

“So it would doubly be in her interests to claim such a thing”, he mused, “not just for her own benefit, but to save her own neck. Even if there were only small justification behind such a claim, the press would have a field day when her 'associates' just happened to leak the story to them after her demise. And even if it were to be disproved, many would believe the whole thing to be a government cover-up.”

Our host nodded.

“All in all, it does not look good”, he said glumly. The girl is twenty-two, and around the time of her conception, her mother, an American actress called Mrs. Maria Barton who was visiting the Netherlands, was indeed one of the king's favoured ladies. One of many, of course, but definitely a leading favourite. Indeed, we have obtained reliable testimony that she was secretly smuggled into the palace on at least one occasion.”

“Disturbing”, Sherlock said. “And little wonder than my dear brother left this to me; the passage of over two decades makes this an extremely cold case.”

Our host’s face fell.

“But it is therefore more of a challenge”, Sherlock said cheerily. “Let us have all the information that you have on the woman and her ancestry, and we shall see what we shall see.”

+~+~+

“I wonder how the mother of Miss Mary King feels about this?” I mused as we sat in Sherlock's comfortably warm room that evening, perusing the Dutch government’s copious files on Miss King. “They are certainly thorough in the flatlands. Everything up to and including the mole on Mrs. King's left shoulder!”

Sherlock chuckled.

“As you yourself have seen”, he said, “sometimes even the smallest detail can attain an importance far beyond its apparent merit. I wonder….”

He was holding a photograph taken at a court ball (I always wondered at those; did the photographer actually ask people to look mildly constipated?). My friend was looking between this and what were presumably the other available photographs of Mrs. King. Her husband, if that was the man standing next to her, looked a nasty piece of work, I thought.

“Pass me the file on the woman's family, please, Watson”, he said, still looking hard at the ball photograph. 

I did so, and he checked something before once more looking hard at the photograph. Then he smiled.

“We may have a lead”, he said. “But I shall have to send a telegram, and I am not sure if the person who receives it will want to help or not. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

I smiled at the old saying, and started to clear up the mess as he pulled his coat on.

“I shall be back for dinner”, he said. “This is not a bad hotel, although their failure to serve bacon is quite unforgivable!”

“Actually, I spoke with one of the bell-boys about that”, I said. “He recommended a small restaurant just around the corner, which he knows does serve it. It opens at six, so if you would rather, we can go there.”

I do not know why he was always so surprised when I did some small service like that for him, but it was worth seeing his small face light up like a child who has found a couple of hitherto unseen presents with their name on under the Christmas tree. He looked so nice when he smiled, I would do anything for him.

Including, I knew with the sort of certainty that required no prophetic skills whatsoever, handing over the best part of my bacon at dinner.

+~+~+

Mr. van Tromp met us the following day over breakfast. There had been no reply to Sherlock’s telegram, and I still quietly wondered at the modern technology which could get a message to the other side of the world in seconds. Next thing we knew, there would be words and pictures as well, and all hope of privacy would be gone!

“The prosecutor in the lady's case is definitely pushing for murder”, our host said with a sigh. “I had wondered if he would so do – there was apparently a degree of provocation in the matter – but he is determined to make his name with this case. And if she is sent down, she will talk. That is guaranteed.”

“Tell us about the case”, Sherlock asked.

“She stands accused of murdering a Mr. Leewarden”, Mr. van Tromp explained. “He was something of a ladies' man by all accounts, and it had been thought at one point that the two of them might marry. But there was an argument over his having seen another lady – it turned out to be his sister-in-law, of all things – and Miss King shot him. In front of two witnesses, so there is no doubting it. She went into another room to fetch the gun, which of course shows premeditation, though her lawyer is arguing that it was all done in a moment of anger and because of a misunderstanding on her part. He is also saying that she is not quite twenty-one and therefore not an adult, although in this country murder is murder at eighteen.”

“When did Miss King know of her potential royal ancestry?” Sherlock asked.

“We do not know”, the man said. “Her aunt, a Mrs. Adeline Smith, arrived recently for a visit from the United States to support her, and possibly told her then.” His eyes widened. “You are not suggesting that that was what led her to....”

“I rather think that in this case, the aunt is of supreme importance”, Sherlock said firmly. “We must endeavour to call on her before she departs, as what she has to say may render my telegram unimportant. Where is she staying?”

“In this very hotel”, Mr. van Tromp said, clearly surprised by the direction of my friend's questions. “Room 201.”

“We shall send up a card at once”, Sherlock said, “and see if she will allow us to visit.”

+~+~+

I wondered as we ascended the stairs as to why the aunt rather than the mother was here to support Miss King. Possibly that was a sign that the mother had disowned the girl, either over the murder or her subsequent claims. Or maybe she did not wish to return to the land where she and the king... ugh! Why did society have to be such that such things were allowed? If anyone had tried to take.....

I stopped that train of thought right there.

Mrs. Smith received us in what was most definitely a state-room. She was a lady in her early fifties, though still beautiful. And also on edge; she stared at Sherlock with a most definite air of anxiety.

“Be assured that the doctor keeps notes only for my own records”, he told her. “No case is ever published if it affects.... the innocent, madam.”

There was a definite meaning behind those words, and the lady relaxed visibly.

“How much do you know?” she asked.

“I rather think that I know all”, Sherlock said with a smile. “Or nearly all. I have but a few questions. First, were you a willing party to this charade?”

She nodded.

“Our father died when we were still young”, she explained, “and my mother raised us with help from her relatives. I was fortunate to meet John – my husband – shortly after I came of age, and when my mother died soon afterwards, she asked me to make sure that dear Maria was taken care of. She married Edward young and against the wishes of the rest of the family, and it was a stormy relationship until they divorced after a few years. That was the year before the four of us came to Europe on one of my husband's business trips, and..... she met the king.”

First vertically, and soon after horizontally, I thought acidly. Sherlock shot me a warming look.

“My husband is out on business”, the lady said, a little defiantly, I thought. “Does he need to be informed?”

“That depends on Miss King”, Sherlock said mysteriously. “I rather fear that she may not be amenable to keeping things quiet, unless her own wretched life is spared. Even her family would take second place to saving her own neck.”

I gulped. I had suddenly got it. Sherlock stood up swiftly.

“We shall depart for the moment”, he said. “I shall keep you informed of developments, madam, that I promise.”

“Thank you”, she smiled.

+~+~+

I was still digesting what had happened when Sherlock took me to Mr. van Tromp's room, and asked that we be taken to see Miss King at once. 

I have to say that the potential princess did not impress me much. I know royalty cannot always be beautiful, but there was a sulky air of consequence about her which would have marred much more attractive features than hers. Sherlock sat opposite her and placed a copy of the court photograph in front of her and her lawyer, a fox-faced man whom I immediately liked even less.

“What is this?” the lawyer demanded.

“Proof that your client is about as royal as I myself”, Sherlock said firmly. 

“A photograph!” Miss King scoffed. “What does that show?”

Sherlock fixed her with one of his looks, and she visibly quailed.

“Your lawyer is fully entitled to have this particular photograph investigated”, he said calmly, “but he will find that there has been no tampering with it. The original was published in a newspaper at the time, a copy of which is still available in the town library. I would draw your attention to the charming lady to the immediate right of the king, as we look at things.”

“My mother”, the girl said.

“Your aunt”, Sherlock corrected.

“You lie!” she hissed, though I noticed that she had gone slightly red.

“There are four other photographs of your mother”, Sherlock said quietly, “and you will note that in each she was holding something in her left hand. Hardly surprising, as she is left-handed. But the lady standing next to the king in the court photograph, a photograph that can be dated to within days of your conception, is holding her bag on her right arm.”

That was why the aunt came over, and not the mother, I realized. Because the aunt was the mother, and.... well, I knew what I meant.

“So?” the lawyer said archly. “People’s arms do get tired, sir.”

“Maybe”, Sherlock said, “but that set me investigating your family, Miss King, and I noticed a further inconsistency. Now, your lawyer will need a magnifying glass like the one I myself used, but I would draw your attention to the left shoulder of the lady who is engaging the king's very ardent admiration. Not so much the shoulder as it happens, but what is missing. We have a second picture of the lady that we know to be Mrs. Barton along with her husband, and it shows a small but very definite mole on that shoulder – but most mysteriously, the mole has disappeared in this picture. That lady is in fact Mrs. Smith, the lady currently saying in the town – and also your real mother, Miss King.”

She stared at him, and I wondered if she was going to hit him.

“Let us therefore reconstruct what actually happened around the time of your conception”, Sherlock said calmly. Mrs. Barton caught the eye of the king, even though she was married. I do not know precisely what happened but the details are not important, save to say that she then proceeded to do something that drew the attention of the authorities, and which made her leaving the country highly desirable. However, the Dutch Crown is not an absolute monarchy, and getting her out of the country would prove difficult.”

“The king was certainly in on the ramp, because he played a major part in what followed. Mrs. Barton and Mrs. Smith swapped identities – they were similar enough in appearance to do this – and Mrs. Barton escaped the country on her sister Mrs. Smith's passport, which she then planned to mail back to the Netherlands. The police had no reason to stop the latter, after all. The plan was that, to allay suspicion, the king would pay court to your aunt for a short time, and then the latter would resume her persona, Mrs. Barton having seemingly slipped out of the country undetected.”

“Unfortunately, the best-laid plans went wrong. Mrs. Barton had indeed become pregnant with the king's child, and when Mrs. Smith followed her home on her returned passport a few months later, she found that out. Mr. Barton, finally tiring of his wife's infidelities, abandoned her.”

“It was the dates that gave you away, which, reluctantly, Mrs. Barton has confirmed today in response to a telegram that I sent her. She arrived home in September, and discovered her pregnancy that Christmas. Mrs. Smith arrived home in January. Mrs. Barton gave birth in May – the child sadly died – and Mrs. Smith, your real mother, gave birth to you in August. Unless the king is somehow capable of engendering elephantine pregnancies for his offspring, you are clearly the child of Mrs. Smith, which is why she came here instead of her sister.”

“Naturally when you reached sixteen you were told of your convoluted background, and you saw in it an excellent chance to exploit it to your own, shameful ends. You could claim to be royal, and your real mother could not expose you without risking the ruination of her husband's business. It was only your foolhardy killing of Mr. Leewarden that pre-empted your schemes, and forced to to declare your hand not to get money, but to save your life.”

She broke down in tears, but Sherlock was unmoved.

“Now”, he said firmly, “we have to deal.”

She looked up at him, hope in her eyes.

“I frankly consider you the lowest of the low”, he told her acidly, “but needs must. Your pushing this story will hurt your aunt and your mother, neither of whom deserve to be associated with the likes of you. Possibly your uncle's business will be damaged if not ruined. Also, you are a United States citizen, and that country, like my own, protects its people regardless.”

He stood up and went to the door. Opening it, he admitted a sharply-dressed young blond gentleman in a brown suit.

“This is Mr. Kent Freeman”, Sherlock said, “from the United States Embassy. He will be escorting you back to your homeland, madam – but do not think that you will evade paying for your crimes. The price of your extradition is that President Hayes will write a formal letter guaranteeing the Dutch government that you will spend the rest of your natural life behind bars.”

“No!” she protested.

“I should also add that, like the majority of his countrymen, Mr. Freeman is armed”, Sherlock said sharply. “Should you be foolish enough to attempt to escape at any point in the journey, he is instructed to shoot you dead. In light of your actions thus far in your wretched life, perhaps that might be for the best. Come, Watson!”

He swept from the room and I scurried after him, leaving a crying woman behind him.

+~+~+

“Doubtless you think me foolish for having done such a thing”, he said later that evening, as we sat in my room. “But I had to consider not just the diplomatic side of things, but poor Mrs. Smith and her husband, as well as the girl's mother. None of them deserve to be associated with someone of such low moral standing, yet they would be damaged if the case against her had gone forward.”

He looked so depressed that I truly felt for him. 

“Are we headed for home now?” I asked, wishing to change the subject. He looked shiftily at me.

“Ah.”

Ah?

+~+~+

Postscriptum: King William III died three years after this story was set. His then ten-year-old daughter Wilhelmina succeeded him as queen, and still (1936) rules there. The Grand Duchy of Luxembourg, whose Salic laws meant that it could not be inherited by a woman, went to the seventy-three-year-old Adolphe of Nassau, who was William's uncle.

+~+~+

Next time, Worms - and Death dies a death.


End file.
